Blamed and Befallen
by Passionworks
Summary: Creative Writing antagonist project.  Tagged with the blame for Animal Farm's fall, Squealer sets out to change the perspective from which Orwell's great fable is told.


**Author's Note: This is a Creative Writing story that I forgot to publish on FFN. The whole project was to take a fairytale (or a Disney movie) and tell the story from the viewpoint of an antagonist. In a class of over thirty, all the best Disney movies were immediately taken (and I certainly was not going to degrade myself and do a fairytale). However, thinking outside of the box, I thought it would be more appropriate to utilize a fable instead. And Squealer, being that he is, surprisingly enough, my favorite character from the story, was a great antagonist to work with. After being granted permission, I set off and wrote this…**

**This story is not only based off the book. The 1999 movie plays a pertinent part as well.**

**I dedicate this to my twin sister, who is not a member of this site. She is perhaps the biggest Animal Farm monger on this planet, so offering this as a gift to her (even though she's read it a thousand times over, and drew the "title" picture for it) seems perfectly suitable. Here's to you, Sister!**

Blamed and Befallen

By: Passionworks

"_Milk and apples feed the brain. And if our brains are not fed, then Jones will come back. Do any of you want to see Jones back?"_

_-Squealer (From the 1999 movie, 'Animal Farm')_

...

There was once a civilization so great, animals used to chant about its splendid loftiness in song. Its charitable donations to the market were the best in all the land; its commoners had full bellies twice a day; and its rules were the foundation of so many more nations to follow.

Yes, on the outside, it seemed that no flaw existed in this society. But within its innards held the fraying thread.

And that fraying thread was sadly tugged…

Now, let me ask you this: if a nation expires and crumbles to countless, unfixable bits, who is to be held responsible for it? At first glance, the government or the ones in the position of power would be at fault. Indeed, it is the duty of the leaders to hold the homeland steady. It is the leaders' obligation to keep the establishment from cracking and splitting apart.

But, it is also the leaders' responsibility to answer the demands of the commoners…

And believe me, Comrade, Napoleon and I responded to every command. We simplified the commandments for our residents. We gave them work and food as a paycheck. We tended to the sick and elderly, and even ended their sufferings when we deemed the act fit.

With all that said, blaming the government would be both nonsensical and utterly preposterous. Why, within this vast society, the commoners held their own beliefs, spoke for themselves, and even swayed the greater power. Their thoughts were equally represented amongst our own –we held nothing back from them.

In essence, it is most obvious now that the inhabitants are at fault for our farm's tragic demise. Napoleon and I should be cleared of any record of wrongdoing.

So, why is it that we are given the painful stigma for the fallen nation? Why are we tagged with the crime when all lower parties contributed their meat to the feast?

There is only one reason I can conjure, and I am a bright, proud fellow –I speak without hesitation in my words. Our commoners blamed us due to one fact: we were the brains of the farm. _If any of the animals were surely smart enough to pull off such a disaster, it was most assuredly us,_ they thought.

To reminisce on my past, I shall say that Napoleon and I did have brains best fed. The others were jealous; yearning for the intellect we knew they were not capable of seizing without hurting themselves.

And they did end up hurting themselves, each other, as well as us in the process. And what remorse did they offer us when the nation fell? There was no sympathy. None. None at all.

So, you see, Comrade, offer your condolences to the other side of the debate, the side you rarely see on the bookshelves.

What follows is the account in its purest form. This story shall be censored no more. Read it, friend, and perhaps you will finally understand what really killed our prosperous civilization…

…

I shall tell this story in chronological tidbits, the first morsel being the pilfering of the milk and apples. This initially occurred soon after the revolt against Man, when the cows needed their first milking as free animals. Jessie, our herding collie, warned Snowball (that dirty, mangy porker that poisoned the minds of the lower animals) that the cows were in some sort of great pain. Upon her request to have them milked, we, the three pigs –Snowball, Napoleon, and I –took on the deed for ourselves, offering the milking cows relief from their ills.

Our trotters replaced Man's fumbling, drunken hands –they should have been grateful for this. It seemed plainly apparent that we deserved a reward for our goodwill, so we took the milk. And soon after that, we seized the apples from the orchard. Why? Simple: apples were brain food (they still are these days), and, when combined with milk, the mind's capacity greatly increased.

Oh, our residents grew upset over this thievery! And Napoleon and Snowball had no idea how to dig our way out of this trial unscathed. Naturally, they turned to me –how sentimental. After a moment's deliberation, I discovered that a distractive meeting was best. It was shortly before this that we had uncovered Jones' television set as a means of entertainment, so, during the conference, I had our strongest canid, Pincher haul the thing from the house and to the barn.

And how the animals' minds liquefied! They forgot the theft completely.

But I found it necessary to regale them anyway. Of course, for the sake of his impending leadership, I placed the credit on Napoleon –honestly, I was happy to share my insights with a pig of such grandeur.

"You see, Comrades," I said in a shrewd tone, head leveled high above my stout shoulders, "milk and apples do not only nourish the body; they nourish the mind. And without sharp and intuitive minds, we would not have the ability to lead you properly through the phase of revolution and liberty. And better yet, your cooperation comes with a reward. Our gracious Napoleon has placed this television here solely for your entertainment. You can relax after a hard day of labor in the fields and watch a program or two before the bedtime hour. Now, isn't that just clever of Napoleon?"

They all agreed. See, Comrade? I was only out to better the animals and make their lives a bit more peaceful. There was no harm done in stealing the best rations. And how the common animals prospered! During these times, we harvested quicker than human kind and we added a mighty boatload to our food content.

Our civilization was never better.

…

Shortly before the usurpation of Jones' power, I had caught wind of our farm collie's pregnancy. I quickly, but discreetly, informed Napoleon of this future benefit to our ideals.

"Surely Jessie's pups would serve well on our side," I told him. "Think of the image that would place on us. With the dogs, we would be an unstoppable clan."

He nodded, clearly intrigued by my presumption.

"Yes, yes, Squealer," was his response, "perhaps the prospect of using the canids would be most beneficial."

And so, when we overtook Jones and when Snowball distracted himself with the deed of painting the Seven Commandments on the barn wall, we formulated the Animal Guard. Pincher was hailed as leader of this band, Bluebell, his next in command.

It was not long before the duration of Jessie's pregnancy met its end. She whelped an excellent brood: three fine, healthy pups. We gave her six weeks with them; from then on, they were our burden. They had not been weaned from their mother, but we had milk to feed them, considering the cows' milk was in our possession.

Our act was met with hostility; the young mother despised the idea of us stealing her pups. But, as with every bump in the road, I came prepared.

"Jessie, you are a working animal."

"That means nothing," she growled back, barely fazed by my factual attitude.

I ignored her derogatory statement. "I have noticed that your leave from farm work is due to end. When you go back to the fields, who will tend to and raise your young? You cannot possibly expect them to survive and fend for themselves during your absence."

"And you think I should leave them in your care, Squealer?"

"I do." I swished my tail authoritatively.

"And why might that be?"

"You mean to tell me that the reason isn't clear, Comrade? Take it from this perspective. Napoleon and I are the breadwinners of this farm. We are the most intelligent, the most willing to offer our knowledge to the young. It would be of the highest honor to teach our customs to the future generations."

"You want to _teach_ them?" she retorted. "As the mother and sole caretaker of my children, I will assume the duty as their teacher."

"How can you, dear? They are already gone."

She already knew this much. "So, you have stolen them, just like you did with the milk and apples."

"Oh, no, no, Comrade. We do not practice theft. That is Man's doing. We are simply taking what we need. As for your pups, they are safe. They are under special education. Doesn't it make you proud to think that your children are learning under the guidance of your nation's leader, Napoleon?"

The border collie had no words for this, but I read hesitancy in her glare.

"Your mate and the other dogs see nothing wrong with this, might I add." I then stated matter-of-factly.

She disregarded me and swiveled her head Napoleon's way.

"I agree with Squealer, Comrade," Napoleon said, eying Jessie sternly. "He states, with perfect clarity, that our actions are justifiable. We are educating the young in preparation for the future. There is nothing wrong with that, Jessie.

"Do you agree?"

"No. They still need their mother."

She then departed with her ears tucked back in defeat.

Again, Napoleon and I had preached the honest truth. These pups were weaned from milk and grammar books and went on to fight on the side that led them to a greater power. If we had allowed them to stay with their matriarch, then their potential would have been lost to us. Those pups were the key to our nation's survival.

A better mother would have been so delighted to see her young doing their part…

…

Snowball was right: Man had it in him to revolt again. And on that day, Napoleon and I withdrew any desire to spill our blood on the field we had won.

As the animals prepared statements of battle strategies and logistics, we uncovered our own hideout, a place far enough away from the combat, but close enough to view it head-on.

Now, you may be tempted to believe that we were acting out of cowardice, but you would be incorrect.

The explanation to our mannerism, you ask, Comrade? Well, isn't it true that a nation fights for its leaders first? And were we not the chiefs of Animal Farm? If we had died in battle on that historic day, then the farm would have fallen years earlier. Our leadership was invaluable –in hiding away, we were considering the fate the common herd.

How nice it was of us to put them first!

And the animals fought with courage indescribable by common text. A few met their demise; we honored them with brief moments of silence. And best of all, the humans departed in a rush.

We had, for the second time, proven our worth as a civilization.

It was clear then that some of the, shall I say, _clever_ commoners had made note of our absence. Rumors spread like wildfire, but we were quick to douse the blaze before it charred our plan.

"Animals, every single one of us fought valiantly on the field of battle this day," Napoleon reported with dignity. "We should be celebrating, not accusing our own allies of misconduct."

"But why were you not present in battle, Comrade Napoleon?" someone asked, presumably a chicken or a suspicious rat.

"I shall answer that question, Comrade." I found it necessary to butt in for my fellow companion. Napoleon stepped back from the spotlight, and the crest of the entire farm laid its beady eyes on me. "Comrade Napoleon and I were absent for one very logical reason. We took on the duty of surveillance, cunningly concealing ourselves so the humans would not see us. In our time of hiding, we witnessed every death within our field of vision, every bit of combat.

"And you say we were cowards, Comrades? I think not."

I ended my speech there, leaving the animals dangling at my cliffhanger.

"Now, let us celebrate our victory, Comrades!" Napoleon chanted with glee.

And we did. We celebrated as common allies for the common cause. Who is to say that there was any wrongdoing in that?

…

The windmill. A tall structure, broad and massive. We had planned for one to be implanted on our land, Napoleon and I did. But Snowball, arrogant and self-centered as he was, found the idea appalling. We argued the benefits; he dismissed them with a flick of his hairy trotter.

After days of intense quarrelling, he changed his perspective, calling the windmill proposal an object of _his_ _own _genius.

Napoleon and I found this oddity in his behavior quite peculiar, and it became clear then that he was merely swapping information with Jones and the other men. He yearned to understand the top secret details of our scheme, and he prodded us for hours until he got his wishes answered. And every single damn time we fell for him, the porker exchanged his knowledge for whatever Man offered him in return.

In short, Snowball was a criminal.

And we had a way of snuffing his treachery out…

But, yet, is the story ever discussed this way, Comrade? No, sadly, it is not. Now, let me tell you how the meeting really went.

The morning was cool. The sky was a watery azure with clouds of billowy white. The wind was crisp. Yes, the day was fine for a meeting in the barn.

But the meeting itself was less than fine. Squeals and honks filtered the air, fur and feathers flew. The whole meeting was a disaster from the very start.

"My comrades," Napoleon's gallant voice bellowed, cutting through the noisy banter like hot butter on bread, "surely we can all see that Snowball's proposal is a waste of our valuable labors!"

"The windmill is not a waste!" Snowball rebutted. "With it, we will ease our afflictions."

"Ease them?" I snarled. "Building a windmill would take a back-breaking amount of effort, effort we can't afford to waste on such a trivial thing."

"I agree," Napoleon stated firmly, scooting himself a bit closer to me, as if to place effect on this declaration. "We should redirect our efforts to where they are most desired. Our food supply needs to be tended to; our borders must be defended in case of another attack on our land. Why should we distract ourselves over this fruitless contraption?"

Conversation stirred. Animals were nodding their heads –our side seemed to be winning the debate.

"Animals," Snowball pleaded; he was definitely feeling the pressure, "I'll give you a statistic to prove my claim. If we build this windmill, then our work days will dwindle to three. Why pass up such a brilliant opportunity to alleviate the weight our labors?"

"He is lying to you. How could he prove this claim? There are no records, no proof! It's nonsense!"

After I bleated this, Napoleon eyed me with a broad smile on his face. He trotted forward and stopped. His glare at Snowball was sharp and full of profound purpose. After a brief pause, my partner hiked his leg and piddled on Snowball's parchment plans.

And suddenly, the dogs charged like bulls in a rodeo! Their fangs were sharp and yellow, and quite menacing –they sent old Snowball running.

At last, the greatest adversary of our farm had been expunged! And with his departure, we resumed our agreement on the windmill and built it.

Look back on what I have told you here. Do you detect even the slightest bit of misconduct? No?

I didn't think so.

…

"The pigs have been living in the house and sleeping in the beds."

Oh, that Jessie was stirring up trouble again. First, it was the future of her children; now it was this? The records say_ I_ was the source of propaganda! Ha, what a lie!

"Allow me explain this, Comrade," I informed the collie, briskly making my way in the middle of the rally she had formed.

Boxer, the silly carthorse, his feisty but elderly companion, Benjamin, and Muriel, the goat, each noted my presence, and backed up.

I elicited a small breath. "Jessie, I couldn't help but overhearing what you told these three here. You said that we have been living in the house. Why, yes, we have been living in the house, in fact."

"But, why, Squealer?" Boxer asked, his expression numbed by his low intelligence. I expected the horse to be the first to make such a bland comment.

"The answer to that is simple, Comrade. The house is where the leaders are meant to dwell, and are we pigs not the leaders of this farm?"

"The farm is as good a place to dwell as any," Jessie snarled, staring me down with the gaze so typical of a herding canine.

I was not fazed at all by this. "By living in the house, we are making room in the farm for you animals. We are giving you privacy. And besides, dear ones, the house is where Jones last dwelled."

"You are becoming more like Man, Squealer."

"Ha, what an idea!" I laughed. "By replacing Jones, we are, in all actuality, replacing the reign of Man over the domain. We are the least like Man, if you ask me."

"Napoleon is always right," Boxer chanted –this was his new motto (and a very respectable motto it was).

"Yes, he is." I nodded my head.

"No, he isn't, Boxer. Explain why you still sleep in the beds. What is your excuse for that? It is against the commandment."

"And _you_ don't sleep in a bed, Jessie? That pile of straw your lay yourself in when the sun sets, what do you call that? It is a bed. A stall is a bed. The hayloft is a bed. A bed is a place of rest, not an embodiment of criminal activity."

"But, the commandment –"

"There was a commandment against your own sleeping quarters? Read the wall again, and see where you have blundered."

Consecutively, the four of them turned their nervous heads.

"You see, the commandment really kills sheets. Man sleeps in sheets. We do not. Now, I will forgive you for the misunderstanding, my friends.

"Good day."

With that, I left them. I heard in my ear the quiet muffle of Boxer's motto.

Yes, indeed: Napoleon was always right.

And so was I.

See? Now doesn't that clear the air on that matter?

…

Pilkington was a man of great stature, despite his physical affiliation with human kind. A man, yes, he was a man, but a great one at that.

The lower animals were distrustful of him –I expected this initially, but there was nothing the poor dears could do about it.

You have a question? Why did we allow this man on our farm? What an emphatic inquiry, one worthy of an emphatic answer!

First off, Pilkington was the first to introduce Napoleon and I to the prominence of trading. Old Major, the porker that first inspired the idea of usurpation, had warned us against trade, but he was wrong about it. With trade, we were able to increase our food selection, able to cause an inflow of profits.

Trade as immoral? Whatever gave Old Major that thought? At every angle, trade was a perfectly ethical action on our part then. I mean, little school children trade their lunches and toys all the time. Trading is a purely innocent thing. Even now it is.

Pilkington also brought to our attention the destructiveness of alcohol. He introduced the beverage to us in the hopes that it would divert any sort of temptation from the other animals. Our consumption of whiskey was merely an act of example –and it worked! Only Napoleon and I washed the poisonous alcohol down our gullets.

Of course, as usual, the commandments stood in our way. So, we had them altered in a hurry. Because of this modification, the commoners failed to ever listen to their darkest temptations…

And those same animals had tagged these instances as appalling, but now you know the scoop behind them. Where is the sin behind helping our nation prosper? You will never find it, try as you may.

…

Every country has its common criminals, and every common criminal has a common fate.

And isn't it funny? Every crime that met us was related to the treachery of Snowball! And since there was some form of descent from him, the punishments we laid out had to be severe.

In our trials, we pigs resorted to execution. The first time we used this measure was when some of the animals declared admittance speeches. Oh, the minds of our own commoners! How dirty they were! Evil must have been a parasite –a parasite Snowball had obviously implanted into them.

There was no other explanation for these abominations.

Napoleon and I deemed the disease worthy of expulsion, and the best way to remove such contamination was to kill it at its very source. The Animal Guard executed those afflicted.

'No animal shall kill another animal,' you recall? That is not how the commandment read. It read: 'without cause.' The killings had justification to them. We were ridding a disease from our farm. Why would we have allowed for that to spread when it was moral to expunge it before it sent everyone else to an early grave?

But what about Boxer's murder? His _murder?_ What _murder?_ Boxer died of natural causes, dear comrade. Whoever told you that he died any other way?

Here, allow me to regale you on the truth. As you already know, Boxer had a terrible accident in the field and presumably collapsed his lung. This medical dilemma made it difficult for him to breathe and he, as a most admirable worker, deserved to be treated. For days, we waited patiently for the doctors to arrive and relieve him of his ills. Pilkington made speedy reservations for him at a nearby clinic. But when the physicians did finally pull in, another round of hostility was met by Jessie. She made up a whole spiel on how the van was going to lead the grand carthorse to his death, for on its side read the words: 'Horse Slaughterer.'

_Liar, liar, liar!_

So, she and her other companions chased the bulky vehicle carrying the horse all the way down the pavement, but its speed was to great to surpass.

Then, after her defeat, she accused us pigs as being killers.

How did we recover our dignity? We spread the honest facts, of course. Boxer was escorted by a vehicle that was once property of the knackers, but it had been recently bought off by the local veterinarians. Boxer died while in the hospital, gasping the righteousness of Comrade Napoleon one last time.

"Napoleon is always right," he neighed wearily, and then fell limp.

There was no doubt: the horse loved and respected his leaders.

And we loved and respected him right back.

…

There were years of great peace in our land. Napoleon declared us free. And we _were_ free, in every aspect of the word. We were equal. Forever equal.

But something was lurking with the goal of stealing this from us. A number of years before the Revolution ended, a few of our own members jumped the gun and escaped from the farm. They had thought that they were escaping persecution and injustice.

But there was more it than that, comrade. In all honesty, they conceived their own evils. They created a sense of fear, one that was reasonable.

And worst of all, they destroyed our farm, killed it dead in the form of a total outburst –a bloody revolt. They butchered many, some in the prime of life, some old, some entirely unprepared.

And they said we were murders! At the end of the day, the sky was a wicked crimson, a sign that wronged blood had been spilled.

Today, these radicals sit on the throne that was once ours. We ruled fairly, with compassion and goodwill. Under the new dominion, such is no more.

…

There you have it: the anthology of the dark side of Animal Farm.

You have questions?

So, where are we now? Good question. Napoleon and I could be anywhere. We could be right outside the farm gate, maybe somewhere on another piece of land.

Or, maybe we are spiritual embodiments of lost direction. Are we dead? Perhaps. Perhaps not. It depends on how you look at it. As leaders, our reign has deceased, but as beings, we still exist.

Indeed, there was once a civilization so great, animals used to chant about its splendid loftiness in song. But it failed to survive. Look, perfect societies only exist in storybooks, in the imagination.

Yet, we came so close…

Only to fall so far down…


End file.
